Orchid Children
by Staccato Stop
Summary: There is a theory that there are two types of children: dandelion children and orchid children. Dandelion children will be fine no matter the soil or the climate. They'll grow like weeds they are. Orchid children, however, require meticulous care. Orchid children left to grow in acidic soil or cold temperatures will never thrive. They'll merely echo.


Orchid Children

There is a theory that there are two types of children: dandelion children and orchid children. Dandelion children will be fine no matter the soil or the climate. They'll grow like weeds they are. Maybe they'll grow up to strangle other plants or just add some color to the world, but regardless they'll survive. These are resilient children. Orchid children, however, require meticulous care. They have the potential to grow into magnificent creatures, but it takes tending. Orchid children left to grow in acidic soil or cold temperatures will never thrive. They'll merely echo.

* * *

The Dixon boys had a reputation. Daryl inherited the legacy of his father, uncles, and brothers. Hard men who left a path of blood, drugs, and sex in their wake. Men who stole and cooked and hated. They hated everything that wasn't white, everything that wasn't family. They beat the shit out of strangers, Merle Sr. maybe with more relish than the rest. They beat the shit out of each other on occasion too. Life was a miasma of violence and poverty; sweltering in the summer and simmering through the winter.

It wasn't just the last name. Had Daryl attended the county school like his brother had and his cousins did, he would have found friends among the other future felons and miscreants. But, his mother in a moment of clarity had emerged from her valium induced wine soaked haze and declared her youngest son was going to get a proper education. She put on her high heels and her red lipstick, threw Daryl in the pick-up and signed him up to attend the school in the city. Every morning he put on the pants with the smallest holes and the shirt with the cleanest collar and walked the two miles to catch the bus that took him to school. He washed his face every morning. He wasn't dirty, but he would never be clean like the other kids seemed to be. The ability of children to overcome adversity can be awe inspiring; the cruelty of children is fairly remarkable too. He didn't come from a house with lace curtains and cold glasses of milk waiting on the kitchen table. He didn't speak the way they did. He didn't have the things they did. Lunch might be what was left in the cereal box held in a ball of aluminum foil. Or maybe nothing at all.

And there was violence in him. A violence that was evident even at 6 years old. The teachers pretended not to see the scars. People didn't call the police in those days. A man could raise his children any way he saw fit. So, everyone ignored the black eyes and the way he flinched when anyone stood too close. They couldn't however ignore the explosive anger that reared its head when he felt provoked. A month into school another boy taunted Daryl with his ham and cheese sandwich. Daryl knocked the boy flat and successfully defended himself against his two fourth grade friends before the playground monitor broke up the fight. He ate the ham and cheese sandwich on the walk to the principal office. They shuffled him into special classes in water damaged classrooms. He spent hours drawing in old notebooks he found in the classroom closet. He shared a desk with a pale boy named Jimmy who ate paste and couldn't read. The other kids used to throw things at him until Daryl knocked the biggest one's front teeth out. They suspended him for that one. He had to pretend to go to school for a week so his father wouldn't find out. The eldest Dixon didn't put much value on school, but any excuse to beat the kid down further could not be ignored.

He went to school and then he made the 45 minute trek home. He spent his afternoons drawing at the kitchen table while his mother chain smoked Virginia Slims and made the motions of preparing dinner. He enjoyed the quiet and the security before his father and brother rolled in the door. Sometimes his mother would ruffle his hair as she passed or put her hand on his shoulder and admire his latest scribbling. Then inevitably the door would burst open and Merle and his father would come in dirty from a long day at work. Merle dropped out at 14 right after the eighth grade. He joined his father on construction jobs, digging ditches and cleaning up trash. He hated it, but Daryl could see the way his eyes lit up when his dad would point him out to his friends. Merle was tall and athletic. The kind of boy a man could be proud of. Not like Daryl. The elder Dixon could never quite shake the feeling that maybe the milkman left a little more than milk behind.

Life was very simple. School during the week and hunting on the weekend. Weekends were an exercise in staying very small and very still. Merle was the closest thing he had to a friend. He was the kind of big brother who loved him when no one could see and tormented him anytime his father or friends were around. He taught Daryl everything he knew about the woods, everything he knew about life. He wiped the blood off the younger boy's back after the belt went back into the drawer. Daryl did the same for him. They would escape into the woods where no one could touch them. A bow in his hand and mud on his face, the sun streaming through the trees, this was when he was happiest. But, Merle never stayed for long. He was in and out of juvie. Then he turned 17 and enlisted. He left the 9 year old to fend for himself. The night before he left he pulled the younger boy into a hug. It was unexpected and never happened again, but he appreciated that his brother said goodbye. He didn't just disappear into the dark and never look back. They weren't the type to say goodbye, but Merle did and that counted for something.

Life opened up in the wake of his brother's departure. Daryl could runner a little freer without the suffocating shadow of his brother. The Dixon household operated under an authoritative regime. Merle Sr. called the game, no questions asked, but in his absence his eldest son had no problem stepping in and holding tight to the reigns. The powerless crave control and they'll try to maintain the illusion of control at all costs. These are the kind of men who set you on the shelf like a salt shaker. And they expect you to be there when they want and not to be there when they don't. But most important, you must be content either way. You're an object to be moved and set, to be had but never truly wanted. Some people fall into line quite easily. They settle in on their shelf and grow dusty and vacant with time. Some people stay put, but there's an anger and bitterness. A volatile solid that hardens all the way through, because you can never quite accept that someone's play thing is all you were ever meant to be. With his brother's departure to basic, Daryl spent his summer days stretching his limbs and his agency.

He started to run with a crowd of cousins and other back wood miscreants in an attempt to fill the summer days and keep himself away from the house. His mother had lost a baby earlier in the year. The darker her mood, the deeper the valium stupor, the harder his father seemed to hit. He couldn't fix her; he seemed to be trying to beat the solution out of his children. It was the summer he had something resembling friends that his mother passed out with a burning cigarette in her hand. He smelled the fire before he saw it. He arrived out of breath and dripping sweat. The neighborhood kids watched with wide eyes, arms dangling over handle bars as the firefighters tried to fight their way in. They didn't make it in time. She was gone and Merle was gone. They moved into a tiny house even deeper in the woods.

There wasn't a funeral. There wasn't money for all that and there wasn't anything left to bury anyway. They had a wake at one of his uncle's houses. A beer and fried chicken in the back yard set up. Daryl stood scrubbed raw and red in starched trousers next to his brother for the entire afternoon. He was too afraid to cry again. His back still stung from the belt this morning. He felt like he might be drowning and he hoped if he did his brother would save him. The ride home in the pickup was cramped and quiet. Their father parked the truck and everyone piled out, but the boys lingered on their new porch under the star filled sky. Their father let the screen door slam behind him. Daryl wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to murder the man who left his mother to marinate in wine and valium, but he didn't. Merle didn't either. They just stood on the porch and listened to the bug filled sounds of summer ebb and flow in the cool breeze. Merle left exactly two days and one fist fight later. He grabbed his bags, nose still dripping blood and left. Daryl wanted to follow him, keep him company on the dusty road, but his father locked the door behind him.

He prayed for school to start again because the constant stress of watching his drunken father, to make sure he was still breathing but not conscious enough to bite, was overwhelming. He spent his days in the woods surrounding the house practicing with his bow and drawing in the shade of the rickety old porch.

The end of the summer set his father disappearing for weeks, months at a time. Leaving Daryl to fend for himself. He went hunting, got lost, and came home to find not one person concerned by his absence. He went to school, but not always. He tried to kiss a girl behind the school and she ran away crying. Her older brothers jumped Daryl on the walk home. He stopped trying to kiss girls behind the school because it sure as hell wasn't worth the broken nose. He wrote a paper that got a B and a shiny star sticker. He put it in the shoe box he kept hidden in his closet. His father broke his arm and Daryl told his teacher he fell off his bike. Life continued on much the same. Merle stopped by on a particularly memorable furlough in January one year and threw himself a party complete with booze, crank and hookers. Daryl hunkered down in his room to wait out the storm. No one bothered him until Merle took it upon himself to usher a drug skinny bottle blond into his 13 year old brother's bedroom.

"Come out when you make a man of the little pussy," were his only instructions and then he shut the door.

She made her way over to the boy. He tried not to flinch when she loomed over him. She complimented the sketch he was working on and then pulled him up and maneuvered him onto the small bed with dingy sheets. He realized when she pressed her face up close that makeup couldn't hide how young she was or the bruising on her face. He could see the track marks on her arms and taste the whiskey on her breath. He saw the way her fingers didn't bend the way they should and that her hands shook. She was skinny and unloved same as him. This wasn't a girl making a choice to live her life a certain way. This was a girl surviving the only way she knew how. Paying the bills with the only thing she had left. She smelled of sweat and cigarettes. She worked her hand into his pants and he wanted her to stop. He couldn't breathe. He wanted to throw up. He wanted her to stop. His entire body was hot and she was suffocatingly close. He thought he might throw up. Logic superseded panic and disgust. His brother would never let him live it down. Maybe, it was time to be a man. He shouldn't be afraid to let people near. He should let her touch him, let her touch him the way he only ever touched himself. She bobbed her head and he felt her mouth wrap around him. He tried to relax, but his heart was racing and he couldn't seem to catch his breath. He pushed her off his bed onto the floor.

"What the fuck…" Maybe hitting the floor shook something loose. She looked around the room and then back at his face, "Shit, you're just a baby. How old are you, kid?"

"Just go. Get out!"

She pulled herself up of the floor, teetering in too high heels she waited with her hand on the doorknob. She bit her lip before she asked, "Look is your brother gonna pay me, cause even if we didn't fuck, I still need cash, you know?"

He pulled the gym sock from inside the shoebox he kept in his closet. He fumbled, "How much…do you get?"

"Give me $25."

He could feel his face flush with embarrassment, "I only have $15." He pushed his hair off his forehead. It was wet with sweat. His hands were shaking.

"Fine, whatever kid, just give me the fucking money" She looked up at him again,"…I'm…just $15 is fine."

He gave all the money he had in the world to his brother's hooker.

"Tell him it was good, okay?" He blurted out before he could clear his voice of desperation. He didn't like the way his declaration made the sad girl look sadder.

"You were fucking fantastic, baby." She kissed him hard on the mouth. She turned on her heel and opened the door disappearing into the cloud of smoke and music.

He went back to working on his sketch. He could taste her magenta lipstick on his lips. He wiped at his mouth with a grimy sleeve. He ignored the way his hands were still shaking.

His father beat the shit out of him on occasion and humiliation was always the order of the day. He had never felt someone push against him sexually though. He didn't feel a thrill like he thought he would. He felt sick and low. She had been too close. It wasn't right. He flexed his hand to try to still the tremor. A different girl, a different time, he could do it. It would be alright. He picked his pencil up once more.

* * *

The most damning part was he could never anticipate what his day would be like. Sometimes his father ignored him, sometimes he disappeared. Other days he would come home early and knock him around without any preamble. There were reasons some day. He burned dinner, broke a plate, made a noise, or god forbid cried. But, the downside of living with an unpredictable person was that it was unpredictable. He might think he father was joking and he would laugh to appease him and wake up with a black eye. Other nights it was a cuff to the head because he didn't laugh.

He did try to be better. He tried to be the best son he could, the kind of person who didn't make mistakes. It didn't seem to matter. He would cook dinner, do the laundry, but it was never good enough. It hadn't always been bad. Before his mother died there were fishing trips and Saturday morning rides in the pickup. After she died all the good times dried up. He kept on at school, mostly because it was something to do, but, also because he liked school, secretly of course. Art class wasn't so bad and some of the books were good. He liked Huck Finn enough he stole a copy and kept it in his room. And it was the only thing his mother ever asked of him. School was the only thing she opened her eyes long enough to care about. So he maybe he would graduate.

Middle school passed quietly and he fell in with the crowd that would keep him company throughout the rest of his years in school. They were guys to joke with during shop and get high with during lunch, the kids that guidance counselors already marked as lifers. The boys everyone knew would never leave their hometown unless it was in a police car or a body bag. They smoked too much, swore too loud and made no effort to rise above the low expectations. They knew what life looked like after high school; they were watching their fathers live it in real time. They were to be echoes, underpaid, underappreciated, married to the girls who grew up next door.

Mostly they sat around after school and got stoned to loud music. They chugged room temperature beer and bragged about their sexual conquests. Sometimes they blew shit up or worked on the pickup one of the guy's uncle had let them have for cheap. He learned to joke, to shoot the shit, to brag about things that never happened, to be surrounded by people but still be alone. They were buddies, warm bodies to pass the hours with. People with couches he could crash on if home just got to be too much. They were people he wouldn't miss and probably the men he would meet every night at the bar after work, for the rest of his life.

Some non-descript summer night, he was at a party in someone's garage. Breathing in the familiar smell of beer, bodies, and pot, Daryl was holding down his customary spot in the corner watching some of the guys shoot pool. They were rapping back and forth about girls they banged, girls they wanted to bang, etc, when the new guy behind the drum kit stashed in the other corner apparently started to feel feisty.

"Hey Dixon, how come I never see you with any of these girls you're fucking?"

"Hit it and quit it. I ain't got time for any of that other shit. She's lucky I ask her name."

He let women kiss him. Drunken girls with too much makeup swaying in their mother's high heels, but then hands would creep and he'd push them away. He'd walk off and find himself another drink. He only slept with older girls or so the rumors went. Silly girls in cheap lipstick couldn't compete with that.

The girls believed it. He didn't notice their eyes on him when he walked down the hall or while he sat in the cafeteria and ate his lunch. He would be scribbling away in the sketchbook he stole with the pencils he 'borrowed' from the art room while the whispered. He was mysterious, quiet and self contained. And that face, that hunter's gait, sure and solid, he drew the girls in like flies to honey. He seemed wild and untouchable, unattainable. The girls whispered about his hands and that tongue that darted out to wet his lips. The boys focused more on the scars that the gym class locker room revealed. They whispered about the busted arm Adam got when he mentioned them, or the stitches Jack needed that time, or any of a long list of black eyes and broken noses inflicted by Daryl Dixon. This new guy, however, seemed to have not heard the stories because he decided to poke the angry bear in a confined space.

"You some kind of fag or something?"

Daryl put his head through the bass drum and smashed his face off the snare drum before the other guys could pull him off. That's when the whispers started. Drum kid had a point. Where were all these woman?

In the wake of this he made his one and only true friend. Holly Stevens was a loud mouth, high heel teetering, chain smoking, closeted lesbian with a reputation of sexual promiscuity. When she sidled up to Daryl's table in the cafeteria it was with a mutually beneficial proposition in mind.

"Meet me outside by the basketball nets after fifth period."

"Why the fuck do I need to meet you anywhere?"

"I've got a proposition, I'll help you with your little problem," she gestured to his busted knuckles from the fight that weekend.

"What problem? I don't have any fucking problems, nothing I'd need the help of a dirty skank for."

"Oh burn," she rolled her eyes and grabbed his wrist. "Just meet me outside, okay? I just want to talk."

People never just grabbed him and they sure as hell didn't hold eye contact like that when he glared at them.

"Get your fucking hands off me." He stood up and left the cafeteria. All eyes were glued on the action.

Holly pretended to look upset, "Our first fight," she admitted, her eyes downcast, to the girls at the table across the way. By fifth period everyone was whispering about Daryl Dixon and Holly Stevens. The general consensus being she was knocked up and Dixon was refusing to raise a baby he couldn't be sure was his.

She was leaning against the brick wall smoking a cigarette when an angry and confused Daryl burst through the door.

He exploded right into her face, "You running around telling people you're having my fucking baby? Dumb fucking slut, what you can't remember who you've screwed and who you haven't?"

She exhaled smoke into his face, "I didn't tell anyone anything like that." She pushed past him.

He turned and grabbed her by the wrist, "The fuck are you playing at?"

"I have a proposition for you, like I said." Before he could interrupt again she blurted out, "Let me be your girlfriend."

He let go of her wrist, "What? I'm not raising some fucking kid."

"Huh? No, you dumbass hick, I'm not pregnant," she exhaled deeply, "I think we could help each other." She looked down at her shoes and ground her foot into the blacktop. "We tell everyone we're dating. I tell everyone about your sexual prowess. Those stupid rumors go away-."

"I'm not a fag. I'll beat the shit out of any sumbitch that says otherwise. I'm not sleeping with you to prove anything to them. You think I want the girl every guy has already had a ride on?" She winced and he felt guilty, but this was the game. Hard and rough, no soft skin exposed.

"Rumors of my sexual promiscuity have been exaggerated. You blow one boy and suddenly you've fucked the whole football team—not important, look I'll lay it all out. I don't care if you're a fag or not," she saw his shoulders tense and his fists clench, she held up her hand in protest, "I'm gay. Okay? I like girls, just girls. And you just don't seem interested in anyone, girls boys, or whatever, which I completely understand. It is slim pickings around these parts. But, we pretend to be together. Slimy boys stop putting their hands down my pants and you stop fighting every jackass who looks at you funny."

He honestly didn't have a response. He relaxed his hands and felt a sharp pang of guilt when he saw relief flit across her face. "I never would have—I don't hit woman," he reassured his eyes wide.

She took a long drag on her forgotten cigarette, "So do we have a deal?" She said with confidence she did not feel. Then after a moment, "Please…"

He had the power. He had her secret. He could walk away and she couldn't touch him. The rumors would dissipate if they thought he knocked a girl up. He could live the lie, but she looked so desperate. Sad and scared in a way he thought only he felt. It didn't stop him from turning on his heel and disappearing back into the school. He didn't need some fucking cunt to maintain his reputation. He'd brain anybody who so much as looked at him.

That night he couldn't get Holly's words out of his head. It would be easier. Life would be so much easier if everyday wasn't a fucking fight. And every violent encounter brought him one step closer to expulsion. One more fight on school grounds and he'd probably be kicked to the curb. And school…school was something he wanted for himself. He wanted to graduate. He wanted to shove that stupid piece of paper in his father's face on his way out the door.

He found her outside the next day, smoking and staring out into the rain. "Okay," he whispered.

"Okay?" She smiled and threw her arms around him. She felt the flinch, felt him stiffen, arms useless at his side. She pulled away slowly, "I'm sorry."

"I'm not a fucking queer. I just want you to know. I'm just not—"

"Look, I don't care. We really don't have to talk about our feelings today or like ever, if you don't want to. Just hold my hand and walk me to class. Glare at boys who try to put their hands on me while I knee them in the junk. That's all. We'll go together. Okay? Keep each other company at parties and try to finish out high school in relative peace. Sound good?" He nodded, "I'm going to take your hand now, alright?"

He managed to nod his assent and suppress any urge to flinch. He felt his face go red and his breathing pick up.

"You really don't like to be touched, huh?" She held up her hand, "I'm going to mess your hair up, make it look like I rocked your world." She ran her fingers roughly through his hair and wiped some of her lipstick on his face, her eyes never left his. "We got this. Fuck all those skanks and assholes. We're going to get through high school and the get the fuck out of this godforsaken place and away from these scumbag people."

She entwined her fingers in his once more and pushed the door open. He walked her to her next class. Ignoring the murmurs and his stiff shoulders and sweat slicked palm, she whispered into his ear, "They can't fucking touch us."

He kissed her hard on the mouth outside 11th grade English, one week later. Catcalls and whistles echoed down the hall. He walked away like he made out with pretty girls in hallways every day, no sweat, he could do this.

* * *

His head was in her lap and she absently ran her fingers through his hair. They were watching a movie in her parent's basement.

"How did you know?" He asked.

"Know what?"

"You know that you were—" he left the thought hang.

"Oh, the lesbian thing?" He nodded. "I kissed Shannon Kieler on a dare in fifth grade. I liked it, but I never really thought about it. Then I kissed my first boy later that year and it didn't feel the same. It wasn't nearly as exciting or nice…I caught myself looking at girls the way my sister looked at boys…and you know I thought about them…at night…" She sat up and smiled at him.

He didn't meet her eyes, he kept his focus fixed on his hands folded in his lap, "Did you ever try to stop?"

"I tried to. Because I knew it was sin and because I knew it was dangerous, like no one ever said, but I just knew I was towing the line. There were other girls, a couple of times. Then I got caught kissing a girl at church camp when I was 13. They told my parents. My daddy was so mad. I've never seen him that angry. He beat me black and blue. And my mother just cried and cried…I started running around with boys, got caught blowing a kid under the bleachers and my parents lightened up. I had a reputation, but at least I wasn't a lesbian…But every boy I kissed, it didn't count, because I knew what I was. I decided, 'Fuck that, fuck them' and they couldn't beat it out of me. I'd play the game a while, but they wouldn't win."

This struck Daryl as odd. He felt like every time he found himself bleeding on the carpet he wanted to change whatever he could to not end up there again. He would be whatever the hell his father wanted, it was just he could never suss out what that was. Two black eyes and a cracked rib convinced Holly to be gay, because 'fuck them.'

He rubbed his hand on the back of his neck. She looked at him expectantly, "I don't think about girls…I don't think about anyone. But, being a fucking fag—it's not an option."

"You won't be here forever."

"I can't just leave. It's family. Family is all you have."

"You have me and I'm not family."

"It's different."

"How's it different? I wouldn't hurt you. I love you. How can you say they love you when they treat you like filth?"

He stood up abruptly, "It just is different and I never said they loved me! They're fucking family and you don't know shit about us!"

"I'm sorry, okay? Sit back down."

His family was always a point of contention between them. She'd never seen the scars, but she'd seen the aftermath. He would come to school with a limp or a black eye. Sometimes he wouldn't come to school for a week. She never went to his house. She would lie awake at night panicked he was dead, but she promised she would never go inside that place. So she would wait. He'd show up a week later with his sunglasses on and long sleeves despite the humid Georgia heat.

She asked once what happened. Even though she knew—he didn't answer and when she made a disparaging remark about his father, he ripped his sunglasses off and pushed her hard against the lockers. He wrapped his hand around her wrist and held her there.

"You. Don't. Know. Shit." She thought he was going to hit her. Right there in the hallway under the fluorescent lights. He punched the locker instead, grazing her ear in the process. He stormed off. She found him later outside. Sitting by the door where they had made their deal a few months earlier. She was done. That was what she stomped out to tell him. She snapped her gum and opened her mouth to tell him off, but he was crying. Honest to God, face in his hands crying. Men didn't cry, not in her experience. Her own father hadn't cried at his own mother's funeral. She dropped her bag to the ground and sat down beside him at a loss. She wasn't going to be one of those girls, one of those horror stories, strangled by the fictional boyfriend she had forgiven one too many times. They sat in silence while he pulled himself together. She nudged his foot with her sandal. He looked up and wiped his face on his grimy thermal sleeve.

"I'm sorry. Holls, you have to believe me! I would never hurt you. I fucking swear."

She wordlessly showed him her wrist, green and blue bruises already blossoming against pale skin. He looked at her, eyes wide with fear.

"Once. This is it. You put your hands on me again and my Daddy comes to defend my honor with a bat."

He nodded. She fished a pack of cigarettes out of her bag. She lit two and passed one to Daryl. He inhaled deeply and looked out over the blacktop basketball court. She pulled her knees up to her chest and laid her head on his shoulder. He didn't jump.

"Never again. Promise." And she believed him like girls in love are wont to do.

He did keep that promise and she learned that he was a man of honor. He always kept his word. She wondered if honor was what kept him in that house, if that's why he played punching bag for that piece of shit father of his. She'd seen him once, Merle Sr. Naked save his white briefs as he chased Daryl onto the front porch of their ramshackle house. He was tall and broad. The kind of man other men gave a wide berth. His hair stuck up at all angles and he glared at her as she sat hands tightly gripping the steering wheel of her dad's Chevy. Those eyes. Snake eyes. Fire and ice simultaneously. Daryl jumped into the passenger seat and she floored it watching the Dixon patriarch growing smaller in the rear view. Daryl finished getting dressed. He laced up his boots and pulled on his T-shirt. She turned on the radio and tried to blink away the tears accumulating in her eyes. He kissed her on the cheek and before she could catch his eye, he was back to staring out the window. His hands folded in his lap.

As he stood there in her parent's basement, eyes angry because she said what was true, she felt anger well up in her stomach. She hated the world. She hated the way good men got turned cold by rat bastards. She could hear her parents upstairs. Her father passing back and forth ranting ever night about, 'beaners, niggers, chinks, fags, cunts, kikes, micks, spics' so much hate, so much anger at things he was too scared to try and understand. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down. We ruin one another, it happens every day.

He heard her father slam something down and swear. He looked up at the ceiling. Maybe she did know a little, but she didn't understand his life. It was always different.

"Just sit. I'm sorry. I just worry about you, you know that." He sat down on the couch again, farther away this time. They didn't talk much more that night. They were just a lost boy and a lost girl sitting on the couch watching the Wizard of Oz and pretending everything wasn't fucked up.

* * *

He was walking her home from school about a week later when he said it back. He first attempt was mumbled.

"What?" she asked in reply to his garbled words.

"Fuck, I love you too, you know." He stole a daisy from Mrs. Granger's front yard and tucked it behind her ear. She held his hand all the way home.

* * *

They swayed together her hands loose on his shoulders, his hands gentle on her hips. Slow dancing for all the heterosexual boys and girls. Their first attempt was a disaster, three minutes of awkward and uncomfortable mostly standing still. It was easy now and comfortable, like worn blue jeans still cool from the dresser. It hurt that she would never slow dance with that cute blonde she ran into in the kitchen. It pissed her off that this person holding her like she was precious goods had to hide because people were ignorant and small. She might be alright, but she wasn't sure about him. Merle got dishonorably discharged a while back. He came into town and stirred up some trouble. Daryl disappeared from her life for weeks. He was upstate now serving time on a B&E and Daryl was back, but she worried he would always go back to them. It upset her more than she could say without pushing him away. He met her eyes and winked, gave her that half smile she knew for a fact made girls cross their legs and sigh.

They asked what he was like in bed. Was he wild? She fed the rumor mill. He was a sex god as far as anyone else knew. That's how he got the school slut to stay true. She didn't think it would be rough, though. It would be slow and good. He would take care of whoever he finally decided to give it to. She considered it. She knew he had as well. She'd seen him watching her. Sometimes he would kiss her hard and cop a feel. Maybe they could have it all together. But, she knew it would ruin them. It would be a lie. It would have made things easier though. She pulled him closer and kissed him with an open mouth. He looked down at her and quirked his eyebrow. She pulled him by the hand out of the door. Give them something to talk about. They climbed into her car.

"What's a matter? Fucking trying to eat my face in there like a zombie or something," he mumbled around the cigarette he was trying to light.

"I hate them. Sometimes it's just too fucking much. If it wasn't for you—"She let the idea hang, because she honestly didn't know. She might have run away, or ate a handful of pills; she may have tried to fuck the gay away. She could be someone's mother right now. He made things better, she was sure. He kept her sane and he loved her unconditionally. He was the only person in her life she could say that about.

He could feel the tension rolling off her body. Her knuckles were white as she held on to the steering wheel with both hands as they speeded away to nowhere in particular. She wanted the high school love story and she could never have the real thing. She talked about it sometimes, when they got drunk down by the lake or when they were high in her car. She pretended to be tough, jaded, a girl who did not give a fuck, but it wasn't true. Free spirits are never really that free. She layered on makeup, heavy dark eyes and lips stained red, but, underneath she was 16 and not as grown up as her tight shirt suggested. He understood the need for armor. Protection, deception. Never let them see your cards. They can't hurt you if they can't see you, if it's all on your terms. He loved this girl because she would kick your ass (well she would at least try). Then she'd want to talk about your feelings. He loved her because she wanted to fall in love and part of her believed that if she could just get away, she could have it all. She made him wonder if maybe he couldn't leave too.

She pulled the car over onto the land overlooking the lake. They stretched out on the hood of her car. She lit a joint, took a hit and passed it to Daryl.

"Summer's almost here."

"Yeah. What like a month of school left? Then two months of babysitting and waitressing. You working for your uncle again?"

"Mr. Heckman got me an interview at the mechanic's on Summerset. He says they need help over the summer. Pay's shit, but I think—I think I might take it. The old man will probably flip shit." He inhaled deeply.

"That's great! Why didn't you tell me, dick?"

"I didn't know if I was going to take it and I knew you would—" He waved his hand.

"Want you to take it."

He exhaled, "Yeah."

"I'll be wiping runny noses and collecting shit tips while truckers play grab ass. Just living the dream, you know." She sat up suddenly, "You know what we should do. Take a trip up to Atlanta. Hit a party. Find me a girl."

She saw him freeze up. She wanted to ask for weeks what he was going to say that night in her basement. Sometimes he needed a nudge, which she was always willing to provide. He sat up and kicked his boots off. They hit the ground with a soft thump. He picked at the hole in his sock considering his words and the unspoken 'and a boy for you.' This was his way. If you wanted the real answer you had to wait. You had to ignore the explosive anger, his go to response. You had to wait to hear what was really rattling around inside that head and that heart. Once he told her, "You're beautiful, but not the way you think you are or the way guys say. You're just beautiful." And then he went back to fiddling with the new crossbow Merle had helped him 'buy.'

"Remember the way you said you kissed a girl and you liked it, but you didn't know it was special until you compared it to kissing a boy?" She nodded and he paused again. "A hooker kissed me once, hard on the mouth. I've tangled tongues with some girls at parties, before I got me a woman of course," he ducked his head again, "I don't have anything to compare it to, cause being—being like that was never an option. I never considered it. They'd never let me—no matter what I might want or feel…" He leaned back and looked up at the sky. "But I would like to know. Because if I am, I would just like to know." He looked back at her and she smiled, a face splitting smile, and she launched herself at him. He hugged her back just as hard.

* * *

"You look like a redneck." He didn't feel he had to respond to that statement. "Right, okay, it's just…try not to look like you want to beat people up so much. You got any shirts with sleeves?"

They were standing in Holly's bedroom trying to perfect Daryl's "going out" clothes. She made him buy new jeans, dark denim and tight. He refused all the shirts she had thrown over the dressing room door, but now as she stood hands on her hips glaring at him, he almost wished he reconsidered.

"Put the black one back on. The one without the holes!" He grumbled about looking dumb as he dug through his duffle bag on her floor. She turned around as he pulled on his new shirt. She never looked. He silently appreciated it.

"What do you know about anything, huh? There! Perfect. Go wash your hands again, grease monkey." She could see his face in the mirror, he was pale. "Hey, hey, look at me." He turned to face her. "It's fine. We'll go. You don't like it we'll leave. Alright? And nobody ever knows."

"He'd kill me, Merle too."

"They'll never know… Besides you promised. So go wash your hands, have a drink, and get in the fucking car."

"Bitch." He smiled that half smile and went to wash his hands for the third time.

About halfway through the drive he finally calmed down enough to sit back in his seat. They parked the car and walked towards the house party Holly's 'lesbian contact', an older girl who worked in the county library and lived with her 'roommate', insisted would be hopping with the same sex inclined.

"Ready?"

"Yeah—cause you know what, fuck them. Right?"

"Yeah, fuck them all." She wrapped her hand around his and smiled.

"Try not to run off with the first blonde who looks at you."

"That is not a promise I can make and you know it."

* * *

It was crowded and dark. And similar in every way to any party he'd ever been too, save the same sex couples pressed against one another.

They lingered in the kitchen, chatted with Holly's friend. A pretty girl with big green eyes grabbed Holly and she kissed him on the cheek before she let herself be pulled into the other room. He held his drink higher and followed her. He was leaning against the wall in the living room when a boy with long hair caught his eye and smiled. He could already feel that it was different. It was right in a way a girl pressed against him never was.

He should dance, that's why they were here. Holly was already out there, grinding up on a pretty girl with dark hair. That would make it real, though. He could deny it to everyone, kick the crap out of everybody who suggested it, but he would know. He couldn't decide if it would make things easier or more dangerous. He was disgusted by the way his hands were shaking. Daryl Dixon wasn't afraid. Tonight was a good a night as any to die.

Long hair, nice smile worked his way across the room. Time to make a choice—fight, flight, or acceptance. He couldn't deny that he wanted it, that he could feel the heat. His father would take a bat to him. They'd bury him in the backyard. Maybe that was what his father wanted, maybe dead was the thing. Decomposing in the backyard. But, he didn't want to be dead. He wanted to be alive. He wanted to feel that strange boy's hands in his hair. He wanted to taste his mouth and feel his body. People always sneered. Called him a redneck, a hick, dirty, dangerous, what was one more epithet? And it felt good. Not like pills or booze. Good like Holly's laugh or sleeping in the sun, not synthetic or contrived. They were want, take, have kind of people. He wanted it, so why shouldn't he meet that man halfway? Why shouldn't he have it?

Long hair, green eyes leaned against the wall beside him.

"Hey." Daryl nodded his head in response and took a hurried swig from the bottle in his hand. In his head, he laced his fingers through that boy's belt loops and pulled him close. Want, take, have. Instead he walked away, through the mass of swaying bodies, out the back door. He collapsed on the concrete steps spilling out beyond the back door. He sunk his heels into the muddy grass and inhaled the smells and sounds of summer, clean and hot, a chorus of bugs thrumming along with the bass.

Too much. He only had a moment to himself. Green eyes let the screen door slam behind him.

"I couldn't tell if you wanted me to follow or if you were just rude."

He could have ignored him or shut down, throw away this chance. Still go home a fag, but with nothing to show for it. He stared out on the crappy fenced in backyard, while handsome, tall and awkward loomed behind him.

"Okay, so I'm going—"

Daryl interrupted, "You could sit." He took a drink.

"I'm John." He extended his hand.

"Daryl." He accepted the offered hand.

"Haven't seen you around here before."

"Not from around here." A pregnant pause followed.

"If I kissed you would you beat the shit out of me? Cause my friends thought I was bat shit crazy following you out here."

People were always afraid. Didn't matter where he went. Even though he never hit anyone unprovoked. Kissing could have counted as provocation, he probably would have hit him if he hadn't asked. It's just a reflex. The only hands you can trust are your own.

Daryl stood up and set his beer down on the gray concrete stoop. He pulled the other man up. He never could have done it in the light shining out over the stairs. So he pushed the other man up against the house and in the shadow of the rain gutters he kissed him. A frenzied clash of tongue and teeth. John's hands in Daryl's back pockets pulling him closer. Daryl's hands in John's hair. Slower now. Exploratory, a moment to savor. They're both half hard, he could feel John against his leg. It didn't disgust him the way he half-wished it might.

Daryl felt hands move to unbutton his jeans, the moment many a mislead girl was unceremoniously shoved away. He stopped and pulled his head back to really look at John, green eyes and stupid hair. He cupped his face and pulled him in once more. Then the romance evaporated and it was less romantic comedy and more urgent, rushed, and hard. Hands fumbled with zippers and buttons. John licked his hand and Daryl followed suit. They jerked each other off against the cracked blue siding of some guy's house. Daryl came followed by John who rested his head on the other man's shoulder.

Clothing readjusted, breathing still heavy, they sat side by side against the old house and shared a joint. He kissed John once more and hauled him to his feet.

He said, "Thank you," because he couldn't think of anything else to say and he felt like he should say something. Sunday school manners rear their heads at the strangest moments.

John shrugged, "Not a problem." Then they made their way back inside.

Daryl whispered in Holly's ear that he'd be in the car. He took his time walking back to the car. He used to think the only hands you could trust were your own. Maybe he could be alright. Holly met a girl at that party. The girl she would come to call her girlfriend in a few weeks time. Daryl never went back. He got what he needed.

* * *

Joanna, the cute brunette from the party, invaded their circle that summer. Holly and Daryl started to drift. They kept up the pretense of a relationship, but it was the summer of Joanna and Holly. Holly got the love story she always wanted. She was vibrantly happy. That's how he remembers her still. Long curly hair, sun kissed skin, red bathing suit laughing on the old swing set in her backyard. Joanna with her short hair tucked behind her ears pushing the swing as hard as her little arms could. Daryl watched from atop the ancient red picnic table.

* * *

Late in August, he woke up to the sound of someone banging on his front door. A quick assessment revealed his father comatose on the tattered plaid couch. He threw the door open and found Tom Parker standing on his front porch. Tom was a kid he went to school with, not friend enough to have a reason to risk his neck banging on their front door.

"What the fuck are you playing at? You're going to wake my old man up."

"You gotta come now. It's Holly, man. He father went ballistic. Somebody called the cops. She was asking for you when they put her in the ambulance."

"What hospital?" He jumped of the porch like he was going to run there in his underwear and bare feet.

"Go put pants on. I've got my car. We'll fucking speed the whole way there, I promise."

"Is she—?"

"I don't know, man. Get your stuff, we'll go."

He couldn't see her when he they arrived. She had been rushed to surgery and he wasn't family. Tom pulled him out of the face of a harried nurse who threatened to call security. Holly's older sister, Ellie, interrupted the screaming match,

"He's family." She said to the nurse and then she put a hand on Daryl's arm, "You come sit with us."

Daryl pulled away and glared at her. "What the fuck happened?" He stopped when he saw her face, exhausted and tear stained.

"I don't know. I was asleep. He just went fucking nuts…Come on. Come wait with us. The doctors should have some kind of update. She'll be happy you're here."

"Mom, look who's here." Ellie gestured towards Daryl and Tom as they came into the room. She didn't respond. In the two hours he would spend in the waiting room that night, she only said a few words. When Ellie and Tom went to find coffee, Mrs. Stevens shoulders stiff, purse on her lap, eyes straight ahead, said, "She's a good girl." Tear trails stained her face, but the tears seemed to be all dried up. Daryl stopped pacing and nodded, "I know."

Tom Parker stayed quietly waiting until the doctors came into the room to say she was out of surgery and resting. Daryl hadn't even noticed the other boy was there until he asked him if he needed a ride home. They didn't let anyone see her that night, so Daryl took Tom up on that ride. They settled into the car and Tom made his way out onto the highway. They sat in silence until Tom pulled up to Daryl's drive way.

"I pulled him off of her…My dad and I. They were outside on the front lawn. We had to hold him down until the cops came…I've heard them fight before. We never did anything—"

"I'll kill him. I'll fucking destroy that bastard."

"No way the police release him tonight. Go get some sleep. I'll come back in the morning, drive you out."

It took him a moment to find the word that wasn't the response he expected, "Thanks, man. Seriously, you don't know…I appreciate it."

"Holly's a good girl. She's one of us, you know. I'll be back in the morning."

Daryl nodded as he climbed out of the car. He turned quickly back to Tom before he made his way down the drive way, "Don't knock on the door. I'll be up. I'll hear you."

He nodded and then drove away. Daryl snuck in, made his way past his sleeping father and collapsed onto his bed.

"You've got something on your face."

"You think you're so fucking funny."

"I am funny. Ask around."

His fingers were entwined with hers. He kissed her hand.

"I'm glad you're here. I was worried they wouldn't let you in."

"Ellie distracted the mean old nurse while I snuck in."

"Such a rebel." She teased.

He smiled and she tried to return the grin, but her stitches pulled and the result was more of a grimace than anything.

"Holls, what the fuck happened?"

"I'm fucking stupid is what happened. I thought I could have had it all, but I don't know. I got greedy. I just…I love her. I love her so fucking much and I thought I could have what other people did…She wrote me these letters and I kept them in a box in my closet behind some extra sheets and shit. He found them. Like the one time in his whole fucking life he tries to help out around the house," She ran a bandaged hand through her hair, "…and it wasn't just letters. We took pictures and she had a friend develop them for us. He found it all. I couldn't even deny it." He noticed that she wasn't crying. She had that thousand yard stare of a person trying to comprehend the fucked up shit that's happened to them. He kissed her hand again.

"I came into my room and everything was scattered on the floor and I just ran. I had to get out of the house. He caught me on the stairs. He pushed me and I remember falling" Her eyes locked on his, "I don't really remember much after that. I was outside. He was screaming and he just kept hitting me and kicking me. Somebody pulled him off. My mother was screaming at him. I do remember that. She never yelled before. She always just let him go. Maybe she really thought he was going to do it this time."

"Holly—"she interrupted him once again, "She came in here earlier. She stuffed a wad of money in my hand and told me I couldn't come home. And you know, I think that's the nicest thing she ever did for me…He's home you know. Got out on a bond this morning…fucking bitch, she couldn't just let him rot in there?" And then the tears started. He had never seen a person cry so hard. He had to call the nurse back in because he was afraid she was going to hurt herself. He stood there, back pressed against the wall, while nurses held Holly down. He watched with his arms wrapped tightly around his chest while they injected sleep into her veins. She cried until the sedation took effect. But, Daryl didn't cry. He didn't even say a word. He just walked out of that hospital room and walked all the way home.

* * *

A beat up pickup was parked in the driveway when he finally made his way home. It could have been blue; he could hardly make out the color in the dark. It had taken him all day to walk home. But, he was calm now. He had a plan now. He was going to kill the fucking bastard. He was decided. When he opened the front door he found his brother standing in the kitchen.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Caused some trouble upstate, figured I better lay low awhile. What you up to little brother?" Merle questioned without raising his eyes from the pot on the stove.

"I got shit to do. Mind your fucking business."

"You going to kill him? Shoot the motherfucker for what he did to that girl of yours? You don't have to answer. Cause I know that's what you're thinking." He scooped some sauce up with his index finger and licked it off, "but here's the thing little brother, I don't think you got it in you."

"You don't know anything."

"I know you. I practically raised you, taught you everything you know. And I know for a fact you won't be able to pull that trigger."

"You don't fucking know me. You don't know anything about me." Merle looked up and for the first time he saw some fight in his little brother. Shit, maybe the kid could do it. He hadn't believed the Parker kid when he called Merle up and told him Daryl was out for blood. His kid brother? The one who drew horses and shit when he thought no one was looking. The kid who went out and cut down a Christmas tree ever year because it was tradition. Sure the kid could fight, Merle had made sure of that, but he just didn't have murder in him. The Parker kid was insistent, though. He was concerned enough he made the effort to track down the elder Dixon brother. Merle figured he should come home and check out the damage. He honestly wasn't expecting the kid standing before him in the kitchen. He always figured Daryl would be alright. He wasn't dumb; he'd keep his head down and get out same as Merle. Now he was going to go and make a spectacularly stupid mistake for some skank who wasn't even family?

"Alright, maybe you have the balls. So what's the plan for after? You going to go to jail for some fucking piece of skirt? Some slut—"Daryl punched him in the face.

Merle retaliated by knocking his brother to the ground. He placed his arm underneath the smaller boy's neck and held him to the floor. He cocked his head and appraised the boy struggling underneath the weight of his arm, "She's that important?"

Daryl nodded, "Get the fuck off of me, man."

Merle had never killed a man, contrary to a myriad of rumors he did nothing to refute. He'd fight a man. Pound his fists against someone's face until they choked on their teeth, but he'd never killed a man. It wasn't that he hadn't considered it and it wasn't like the opportunity hadn't arisen. He had the impulse; it was just no one had ever given him proper reason to exercise it. Everyone has a code, the standard they hold themselves to. No matter what the rest of the world believed of the man, he knew that he could be a killer, but that didn't mean he had to be one. And what if he liked it? What if after one he couldn't stop? It was better not to know what would happen if he got the taste for it. Besides, it was more fun if the other guy had to live the rest of his life without front teeth. But, he knew if Daryl was the one in the ICU, he wouldn't have even stopped to consider. There would be a body cooling in the morgue with a close range bullet wound to the head. He wouldn't have pissed on his father if he was on fire, but for the kid, he might be moved to homicidal violence.

"You can't go and kill some girl's daddy, just 'cause he laid hands on her." He let Daryl up off the ground. Daryl stood and readjusted his clothes.

"I can't just do nothing. The bastard has to pay…Man, he almost killed her."

"You get caught, you'll do life. And if you run, you can't take her with you." Merle wasn't stupid. He could see the endgame that Daryl was choosing to ignore. Self-preservation was a finely honed skill of his. "No way this ends clean. They gonna know it was you. How you propose you gonna get close to him anyway? He's locked up."

"He got released this morning. Motherfucker is back at home. That stupid bitch ole lady of his posted bail."

"So you're just going to walk into his house and what?"

"Shoot him in the fucking head. That's what I'm going to do. I'll wait until it's dark and they're sleeping."

"Dumbass fool, what are you going to do when his woman wakes up screaming?"

"Run."

"Where to? Not back here."

"Fuck man, I don't know. Away." He waved his hand, "They ain't going to look that hard for me. I'll hole up for awhile, it'll blow over."

"I've heard some dumbass plans before, but that's got to be the stupidest fucking plan in the history of plans, little brother."

Daryl pushed past Merle and walked quickly down the narrow wood paneled hallway into his bedroom. Merle followed. He leaned in the doorway of the tiny room and watched his brother pack his few belongings into a trash bag. Daryl grabbed his gun off the bedside table. He checked the safety before he tucked the gun into the back of his pants.

Merle tried not to laugh as he watched his scrawny little brother looking all determined and shit. He already decided there was no way the kid was leaving the house tonight. But, it was going to be funny to watch him try.

He slung the bag over his shoulder and took one last look around his room. His eyes lingered on the crossbow propped in the corner, but he was worried about being weighted down. He shook his head and looked up to find himself face to face with his brother.

"Move."

"No."

"I'm doing this. Get out of my fucking way."

"Ah, no…don't think so." Daryl swung at him but he was ready this time. He grabbed Daryl's wrist and threw him backward. The younger boy looked up at him from the ground, Merle gave a low whistle, "Feisty, but I don't think you can take me, kid."

His throat was burning from holding back tears. He was so tired. He hadn't realized, but lying there sprawled out on the floor he could feel the exhaustion lying heavy on his bones.

"I can't do nothing, man," He said as he looked up at the dingy ceiling.

"She's not even family, kid."

"She's all I got…you aren't here. It's just me and…her."

"She's got you pussy whipped, huh? We'll get you out of this place. You'll forget her in a minute; get you some grown up pussy."

"It's," Daryl exhaled loudly, "it's not that. It's not that at all."

"Go to sleep. I'll drive to the hospital in the morning, alright?" Merle extended his hand to the younger boy and pulled him off the ground, "You try to leave and I'll fucking end you." Merle let go of his hand.

Daryl collapsed onto his mattress. He removed his gun and stuffed it under his pillow. He pulled the threadbare white sheet over his body and closed his eyes. Just for a minute. He was going to get up right back up. He was going to sneak out the back…He was asleep before his brother even made it back from the kitchen with his dinner. He sat propped up against the doorjamb. He crossed his legs and blew on his food to cool it.

"Stupid, fucking kid," he muttered.

* * *

They drove to the hospital in relative silence. Merle popped a couple of pills and turned the radio to a tolerable channel. Daryl sat shoulders hunched in the passenger seat. He scrubbed at his eyes and tried to will himself to feel more awake.

"What's the old man up to these days?"

"Who fucking knows. He disappeared for a couple weeks about a month back. Thought the bastard had finally gone." He chewed on his thumb nail, "I think they're cooking again. I can smell it on him, but he's around less…"

"I heard McKinney got the family business running again. Might be they let the old man in. He's a bastard, but he knows his crank."

Silence filled the truck once more. Merle tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and fiddled with the radio dial once more. He cleared his throat, "He, uh…he still beating on you?" Merle didn't risk making eye contact. He kept his eyes locked on the road.

Daryl tensed. He glanced sideways at the man behind the steering wheel. If he knew, it wouldn't change anything. This is what the old man did. Merle took his licks, Daryl would take his too. Anyway, it hadn't been so bad recently.

"Nah, not really. We don't see much of each other." He picked at the tiny threads hanging down from his shirt sleeve and looked out the side window.

Merle grunted, "He never did go after you the same way he seemed to go after me." Daryl nodded absently. This wasn't true. Maybe Merle didn't want to admit it, but the scars on Daryl's body painted the same story of abuse as the scars on Merle's did, possibly an even a worse story. After their mother died, he started to use the belt more liberally than he had in the past. And with Merle gone, Daryl bore the brunt of his rage. Things had been better, though. He thought maybe he was getting too big for the old man or maybe the old man was just getting too old. Whatever the reason, he could handle his father. He had 17 years of practice. Merle turned the radio up once more and tapped his fingers along with the beat. Daryl closed his eyes and tried to soak up the bright morning sun.

* * *

"Young man, I know you aren't family. She'll be moved out of ICU tomorrow and then you can see her," a young nurse with the blonde ponytail explained in clipped tones.

Merle had dropped him off at the curb. He said he'd be back in a couple hours. Now it looked like Daryl wouldn't even be able to see her. In his peripheral vision, he could see security edging in. The blonde nurse tapped her fingers on her clipboard, a condescending look pasted on her face. "I am sorry, but I'll have to ask you to exit the waiting area."

"You have to let me see her. I came all the way down here, please," he tried to ignore the note of desperation that snuck into his words. "She's my family. Please, ma'am." Security inched closer and his sense of desperation heightened. Violence wasn't going to work, but politeness might.

"Natalie, enough let the boy in." Both he and the young nurse turned.

"But, ma'am, the ICU rules clearly state—"

"You're here to see your sister, aren't you boy?" The older woman asked in a friendly tone. She quirked her eyebrow.

"Yes ma'am."

"Well there you have it, Natalie. Let the boy back."

She opened her mouth to speak, but one look from the older nurse silenced her. Natalie huffed, her blonde curls swinging behind her. She reached over the counter and pressed the buzzer under the desk.

"I'll take him back. Nurse Knecht, back to work." Natalie shot her supervisor a look, but the older nurse ignored her as she escorted Daryl into the ICU.

"Let's not have a repeat of yesterday, if we can." Daryl shot her a look, "That's the first emotion we've seen from her since she woke up. Are you Daryl or Joe?"

That question caught him off guard, "Uh, I'm Daryl."

"Ah. She's been asking for you since they brought her in. You should let Joe know she's been asking for him too." He hadn't even thought of Jo. Did she even know? What if she tried to go to the house?

"I will. I'll let her know."

"Okay. Here we are." Daryl looked up and tried to focus. There were so many things running through his mind. The nurse put her hand on his shoulder. He flinched. Harder than he had in a long time. She gave him a knowing look, "I'm Grace, if you need anything you come find me, you hear? Now, go on in there and take care of your girl."

"I… thank you ma'am." He opened the door and stepped into the bright white room. Grace smiled and shut the door behind him.

"Hey, Holls. How you been?"

Holly opened her eyes groggily and smiled, "Hey," she croaked, "How'd you get in here?"

"Uh, Grace, the nurse," He rubbed his hand on the back of his neck and then he shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from fidgeting. Why was he so nervous?

"Hey… hey, what's wrong? Did something happen?"

"No, it's just…I'm…" He stared down at his shoes.

"Hey, come here. What happened?"

"Your face looks better." He said, but he didn't look her in the eye.

"No it doesn't. Hey, look at me. What's a matter?"

"Nothing's wrong. I'm fine. How are you feeling?"

She eyed him warily, "Alright. They got me on good stuff. I'm tired though." Daryl paced back and forth, his hands still crammed in his pockets. "Jesus, sit the fuck down."

"We gotta call Jo. Make sure she doesn't go over to the house looking for you."

"Is that what you're all worried about? Ellie called her for me. Yesterday…Hey baby, stop. Come here." Daryl stopped pacing and jumped up onto the corner of her bed. She tried to grab his hand but he jumped off the bed and started pacing again. He turned away from her. She watched his back as he inhaled deeply and then turned hard on his heel. He jammed his hands into his pockets once more.

"I was going to kill him. Yesterday, after the hospital. I walked all the way home. Merle was there and he stopped me, but I had the gun. If he hadn't been there, I would have done it."

She looked up at him, **"**No you wouldn't have."

"Holls, I think I would have. You're…you are everything. He has to fucking pay."

"And he will. He'll get his, someday, some way. The world's going to pay him back for this."

"You can't know that."

"So what, you kill him and then get sent upstate? What does that fucking solve?" She grabbed his hand and he stopped pacing to look up at her, "You aren't a killer."

"You can't know that either."

"I know you."

"I can't do nothing."

"Sit with me. Keep me company. Eat my vegetables so the nurses will stop fussing. Hold my hand and be my pretend boyfriend while we plan our escape." So he did. He spent the rest of the afternoon curled up beside his girl while she outlined their great escape. One of the nurses woke him up later in the afternoon. The setting sun casting shadows on the floor.

"Holls, I gotta go. I'll be back tomorrow."

"Okay," she mumbled into her pillow, "Love you."

He kissed on the cheek and made his way quietly to the door, his hand lingered on the handle as he looked back on her sleeping form. He'd come back tomorrow. Maybe they could run away, him and Holls and hell Jo too. Not like anyone would come after. They could start clean. He slept well that night. For the first time in a long time, he had hope.

* * *

The next morning, he saw Grace standing behind the desk. He recognized the look when her eyes met his. He'd been here before. His heart dropped. His whole world lurched forward and back again.

"No!" He shook his head, "No."

"Honey"

"She's fine. Because she fucking better be fine. This can't-No."

"Honey, her SATS bottomed out last night, they rushed her to surgery, but it was too late. She didn't make it. I'm so sorry."

"Sorry! You're sorry. She's fucking dead. Dead? And you're sorry." He spun on his heel and knocked over the table set up behind him scattering pamphlets across the tiled floor. The world was spinning. He felt like he'd been caught up in a riptide and he couldn't decide which way was up. Security escorted him outside in a blur of rough hands and swears. The dumped him on the sidewalk outside the hospital. Grace tried to talk with him, tried to reason, tried to calm, to no avail. He was gone. He shrugged off her kind words and gentle hands and took off towards home.

* * *

He tore into the house covered in snot and sweat. Merle watched from the couch as he grabbed the shit he'd packed the night before.

"What's got your panties in a bunch, little brother?"

"I want to get the fuck out of here. You said we could leave. You'd get me out of here and make me forget her. Let's go."

"What about your little girlfriend?"

He stopped moving. His mind stopped racing. Everything in his life was still for one blinding moment. It was over. Everything he wanted, everything he thought maybe he could be was gone. It faded away with her. "She's a slut, fucking trash just like you said." He lied. He thought it would be easier, but then Merle cocked his head and looked at him. "She's dead, alright. She fucking died and I can't stay here. I'll murder that motherfucker and cunt of wife too."

Merle nodded, "There's a job up in Atlanta. I could probably get you on the crew. We gotta leave out tonight though."

"Great."

"What about school? What about the old man?"

"Fuck him, fuck everybody." He said on his way out the door. All Merle heard was the slamming of the front door in response.

* * *

He grew up a lonely boy and in the natural progression of life he evolved into a lonely man. Things fell into place very much the way it always seemed like they would and then the zombie apocalypse happened.


End file.
